


Shards

by Medie



Series: Plans-verse [3]
Category: CSI: NY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-15
Updated: 2010-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-11 02:56:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/107582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medie/pseuds/Medie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're scared to let yourself hope, but you want to. God help you both, you want to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shards

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**oxoniensis**](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/)' latest porn battle. Spoilers for this season (Don's character arc in particular). Post ep for 6.08 "Cuckoo's Nest".

Don doesn't look at you on the way home. You're not sure when it became 'home' to you both, but it is. Was. It's been so long since he spent the night, you're not sure of anything anymore.

No, you're sure of one thing. You dropped the ball. You don't say anything as you sit in the car, navigating the traffic, watching the rearview mirror for signs of pursuit. You got away from Terrence's apartment clean, you know that, no one will be following, but you look anyway.

You need to see your own eyes, accusing and angry, staring back at you from the mirror. You need to remember your part in this. You can't let yourself forget. Don's a big boy, capable of making his own choices, but that doesn't absolve you of your responsibility. You should have been there. You should have realized how bad it was getting.

You didn't.

At least, that's what you tell yourself. Down deep, you know different, but that's fine. You've been telling yourself a lot of things since Angell died. Some of them are even the truth.

You've heard the whispers about her and Don, but you know the truth and so did she. Of all of them, she's the only one that figured it out. That _saw_ you with Don, really saw you.

You never thanked her for her silence. You're hyper aware of what might happen if you and Don go public. You know the kind of hell that a defense attorney could make of your relationship. Angell knew it too. Whether her silence was affection or pragmatism, you don't care anymore.

It's pointless to blame yourself. You couldn't have changed anything about her death, you're not omnipotent, but that doesn't stop you.

You blame yourself for it all. She's dead and Don -- You sigh. Don is barely standing and you're partly responsible. He might - would - argue, but that changes nothing.

There are some things even you won't admit to yourself. Not about that day. Not about Angell's death or the shooting that followed, but you can admit that. You have to.

You pull into your building's underground parking. From there, getting Don out of the car and upstairs becomes a series of one word orders. It's not much of a conversation, but somewhere in the elevator, his hand steals across the distance between you and takes yours.

Breathing out, you keep your eyes on the numbers overhead and watch the floors flick by. You know this won't be fixed overnight. Don -- his partner died. He spun out of control. Nearly dragged you down with him. You picture what might have happened, had Terrence not found Don when he did, and see yourself standing over his body in that subway car. You see yourself chasing down the suspects and you shut your eyes.

Don isn't you. Doesn't have your history or training. Doesn't deal with things the way you can. Twenty years and you still move like a marine. You fight like one.

You can kill like one.

Whether you would or not is a question you're not ready to ask yourself.

"_Mac_."

His voice is low, rough, and for a moment you shiver. You've heard that voice before, you've heard it moan your name in the dark, whisper it in one of the lab's isolated corners. You can't help it, even as a plea for help - salvation - that voice lights a fire down deep.

You look at him. For a moment, it's almost possible to forget, pretend the last few months never happened, and this is a the end of a long, hard day. His eyes on you are sad, tired, and full of other emotions you don't dare name, but they're _him_.

He sucks down a breath and then tries again. "Mac, I -- "

You nod and let him pull you close. Normally, you wouldn't do this. You're on camera. Evidence now exists of your relationship. Your instincts scream out, but you quash them.

Right now, you don't care. You press your face against his neck. Sweat, alcohol, and the tangy taste of blood. You don't care. Right now, you need him as much as he needs you.

You stumble out of the elevator together, Don's fingers fumbling with your pocket, pulling out your keys. "This won't fix things," you murmur, curling fingers into his shirt.

"No," he says. "It won't, but -- "

You nod. You know what he means. Sex isn't a magic cure-all, but you both need to feel alive. It's cheesy, but it's true. His lips find yours as natural as breathing.

You almost laugh. You never talk like this. You've told yourself that one for years. Claire laughed at you then, Don laughs at you now.

Or, at least, he used to. You'd started to believe that laughter died with Jess.

You're scared to let yourself hope, but you want to. God help you both, you want to.

He breathes your name against your lips. You close the door with one hand and grab his belt with the other. "We're going to talk," you warn him. "And you're going to talk to someone."

Don doesn't argue, but you know better than to take that as agreement. That's fine. You'll take care of it later. You think, at least, now he'll let you.

He presses closer, but you back away. He's showered, but it's not enough. You don't stop moving until you're in the bathroom and there's steam rising around you.

He reaches for your coat, easing it down over your shoulders. "I fucked up," he says. "Bad."

You don't answer. You can't. If this conversation goes where you think it might, you don't know what you'll do. It's a question that you don't dare ask yourself. There are a lot of those, there will be a lot more, and that doesn't scare you. It should.

"Take off that shirt," you say, instead. "Let me see the damage."

He raises an eyebrow, lips flirting with a familiar smirk. "You trying to play doctor, Taylor?"

You try to smile in kind. You don't know if you succeed, but his eyes warm with relief, so you think maybe.

Pulling his shirt over his head, you're confronted with a sea of bruises. A sigh escapes you, sad, hurt, and you lean forward. He groans when your lips trace the first bruise, when your tongue follows the same path, he repeats the sound and leans back against the bathroom counter.

There are a lot of bruises. Don's squirming beneath your mouth before you've inspected half of them. You press a thumb against one, listen to him hiss, and when you nip at another, he tangles hands in your hair and spins you against the wall.

You laugh and hook a leg over his hip, bucking against him. Your hands go over your head, held there by Don's, and you relax. You're not complaining. He hasn't touched you in weeks. Shame, guilt, his own demons keeping distance between you, your failure to reach him. You don't know and you don't ask. You just let him do this, take that first step back, and decide that it'll be enough.

If you're lying to yourself, you'll figure it out later.

His fingers, rough and blunt, find their way beneath your pants. You're wet, just barely, but it's enough that he smiles against your neck and presses against your clit. It's not enough and its you that squirms now, trying to coax him closer.

"Not yet," he murmurs into your skin. "Let me do this, huh, Mac?" There's a defensive edge on his words, but he softens it with a kiss. Another one, just beneath your jaw, and you hum an affirmation.

He stops just long enough to relieve you of your pants. Your dress shirt he leaves, hanging open, the cool bathroom air sharp against your skin, contrasting with the heat of the steam and your own body. You lick your lips, push against your hands, and he rewards you by pressing a kiss to the black fabric of your bra. A moment later his mouth closes over your nipple, breath heating the fabric and your skin.

His name is faint on your lips, yours becomes a prayer on his. Don's never quiet during sex. Not quiet much at all, but like this, he can't stop it. Endearments, encouragement, and a running commentary are part and parcel with it. Not now, though, now it's just your name. Over and over again as if, with each recitation, he can fix everything that's gone wrong. Brick by brick rebuilding the ruins of his life.

It's a pretty fantasy and, now, it's one you're content to believe. One you _need_ to believe. Maybe now you can make good, can fix what a questioning looks and half-voiced worries failed to do.

He finds a condom in the medicine cabinet, you make a note to buy more, and leaves it on the counter. You watch him sink to his knees, looking up at you as you look down at him, and you smile.

You fly apart under his lips, his tongue, then you do it all over again when he slides fingers inside. You're still fighting for breath when he licks them clean, grins up at you, and says "Ready."

You roll your eyes, take the condom, and reach for him. "Some things never change."

"Not you," he says, in a tone that's just this side of worship. You drop your gaze, feeling guilty, and admit he's not the only one who has some rebuilding to do.You know how he looks at you, how he sees you, and you know you let him down. You're human too, fallible, but this isn't how he should have learned that lesson and, someday, you'll forgive yourself for that.

Just not today.

You slide onto the countertop, pulling him between your legs, and he slides in. "God, yeah," he sighs.

You press your face against his shoulders, your lips slick on his skin, and ride the pleasure surging through you. You know you're both a long way from okay. Things won't ever be right, not truly, ever again, but you think you're okay with that.

You shouldn't be, you know that too, but for now, for now, that's fine.


End file.
